


White Cliffs of Dover

by SansSoucis



Series: Kissing Knuckles [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Basically England wallowing in self-pity for the entirety of the fic, Brexit, Childhood, Dark, EU, England pov, England's childhood memories, FrUK, FrUK/Ukfr - Freeform, France's temper tantrums, Germany and his massive guilt complex, Longing, Love/Hate, M/M, Mentions historic events, Nations being very hostile towards one another, One Shot, Possesiveness, Romance, Unhealthy Relationships, implied GerFra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-27 02:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16694071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SansSoucis/pseuds/SansSoucis
Summary: “Go back to your shitty little island then!” France snarls wildly, blonde curls falling into his eyes as he stands up, and England can see the water swirl around in their glasses from the sheer force that he uses to bring his hand down on the table. “Go cry to Amerique about how special you think you are and how unfair it is that everyone has left you!”Amidst the Brexit negotiations, England tries to take on his fellow member states with a straight back and a healthy dose of snide remarks, but unwanted sentiments and memories of a childhood long lost get in the way.





	White Cliffs of Dover

The colour has drained from the rose, tender pink, almost translucent in the soft blurred light of early spring. England touches its petals, ignores the murmurs of voices and shuffling of chairs around him. It’s a sick flower, the gardener in him concludes, it will die in mere days. And what a tragic way to die, to fall apart petal by petal, robbed of all your thorns.

England can’t help but think of another rose, a particularly large red rose, which perhaps only had looked large in his tiny hand. How he’d offered it to another child who was at least three heads taller and laughed far too much for England’s liking. They’d both cut their hands on its sharp thorns, and Gaul had clenched their stinging palms together. _‘Brothers of blood.’_ was what he’d murmured, mysterious smile playing at the curve of his lips.

His fingers trail absent-mindedly over his palm. The scar had long faded, being over a thousand years old, but sometimes England liked to pretend he could still feel the little dent beneath his index finger, where the thorn had pierced his skin and Gaul’s blood mingled with his. Back when he was Albion and stood three feet tall. When France still wore a dress and went by Gaul. When they had been children and the weight of the world had not yet come crushing down upon their shoulders.

He thinks of two pairs of pale feet running around grassy plains and fingers entwined to never let go. If only he had held on..

“England.” His head snaps up at the sound and he looks straight into Germany’s stormy eyes.

 “Yes?” He answers, a little dazed because in his mind he’s still giggling and wearing flower crowns and dancing around in the mud.

“I’d greatly appreciate it if you’d stop ruining the floral arrangements.”

England blinks a couple of times, becomes aware of the petals scattered all over his notes and laptop and the weight of 27 pairs of eyes on his presence.

“ _Inglaterra_ can’t help himself, he just has to ruin things.” Spain mutters not-so-quietly from across the table. Arthur clenches his jaw, tries to ignore him and the noises of agreement that follow.

 “ _Yes_ , yes of course, Germany.” He says curtly, quickly brushing the petals off the table, mentally cursing his cheeks for flushing. “You were saying?”

“We were talking about _you_ , England.” Belgium says coolly, her green eyes narrowed in annoyance.

Before England can respond, Romano snorts scathingly. “I still don’t get why we allow _him_ be present at these meetings, the humans don’t allow May to join and _he_ does not give a fucking damn anyway.”

 “I also don’t understand why anyone would bother to invite the less important half of a nation, but here you are.” England says nastily, smirking as Romano reddens.

“ _England_ is here,” Germany says loudly over Romano’s cursing, trying to prevent the situation from escalating as usual. “Because he is _still_ a member state and this discussion concerns him and his decision to leave the Union.”

In different times, when Germany’s bombs dropped down in dozens on his beloved London, England would never have imagined Germany sticking up for him. Now that it’s actually happening it only makes him feel more pathetic.

“We need to come to a mutual agreement to ensure a smooth departure.” Germany says matter-of-factly. “That’ll be best for all of us.”  England notices his face barely moves when he talks, too afraid to break out of the perfect mould he’s created for himself, too afraid to cross a line and release the power-hungry warmongering beast England suspects still lives somewhere deep inside of him.

“Why bother?” An all too familiar voice snaps, and England doesn’t even need to look to Germany’s left to know France is glaring at him.

“Care to elaborate, frog?” He mutters lazily, plucking a lost petal from his keyboard, toying with it, if only to avoid France’s piercing gaze. 

“ _Well,_ “ His mortal enemy says, and England looks up in surprise at how bitter his voice sounds. Not angry, but _bitter_.

“I do not understand why a mutual agreement is needed. I think that _Angleterre_ should not be _rewarded_ with special agreements and privileges for abandoning the Union. If we could all just _leave_ and not suffer any consequences, the Union would be gone within years.”

His lips are pulled tight in a grim sneer that tilts only slightly upwards at the agreeing whispers and hums from his fellow member states. They are full, pink putting the petal crushed between England’s fingers to shame. Trust France to try and make things more difficult for him, the bastard has always enjoyed making England suffer. England only wishes he could enjoy France’s suffering just as much.

“Oh don’t worry, France.” England bites back at him, with a leer that’s all teeth. “Being finally freed from you lot is enough of a reward for me.”

It’s all way too easy, falling back into old patterns, old times where all he ever wanted was to make France fume with anger, to hear his animalistic growling and pained whimpers as they collided with one another, kicking and punching and scratching until they were both raw and bleeding and _alive_. England, having always had the bad habit of clinging onto shadows of the past, riles him up without a second thought, and France always takes the bait.

“ _England-_ “ Germany begins warningly, but he is cut off by the _awful_ sound of France's mocking laughter. 

“Oh, because we have been _so_ unfair to you, with all of your special demands and treatments. You’ve never even _tried_ to be a proper member state like the rest of us!”

England has always been an island child, quirky and a bit lonely, and he knows he’s not that good at making friends but he’s tried, _he’s tried_ -

“If being a proper member state means obediently swallowing every single rule that the Kraut tries to ram down your throat like you do, then no.” England says cruelly, smirking triumphantly at the silence that follows and the way France’s face flushes three shades darker. The room swells with awkward tension, then everything bursts loose.

“Jesus Christ, England _!”_ Belgium scolds loudly, while whispers and hisses erupt all throughout the room and Germany, who has paled sickeningly, starts rambling about how he is not trying to make anyone do anything and if he comes across that way he certainly doesn’t mean to and he’s very sorry-

“Go back to your _shitty_ little island then!” France snarls wildly, blonde curls falling into his eyes as he stands up, and England can see the water swirl around in their glasses from the sheer force he uses to bring his hand down on the table. “Go cry to Amerique about how _special_ you think you are and how _unfair_ it is that _everyone_ has left you!”

“Make me.” England says simply, because the anger clouding his mind makes him unable to find any other words and just makes him want to lunge and close his hands around that lovely pale neck- but before he or France can do just that Germany interrupts them.

“Stop it, England.” He growls, because of course he would only reprimand big bad wolf England even though France’s just as bad but willing to spread his legs and _why_ did he ever even join in the first place? 

Germany’s large shovel hand is on France’s shoulder, pressing him down in his seat and England isn’t sure if he’s imagining it but he thinks that that thick-knuckled thumb of his is running soothing circles on the soft white fabric clinging to France’s upper arm and it sickens him-

“This topic is dismissed.” Germany says calmly, only the anxious way his light blue eyes shift around in their sockets betraying how shaken he feels. “We’ll talk about Brexit next meeting, and if nobody is objecting, I suggest we have a fifteen minute break.”

And that’s how England finds himself shuffling slowly out of the conference room while trying to calm his breathing – he hadn’t even realised he was panting like a dog- and ignoring dirty looks thrown at him. He heads straight for the hot water and spends the first half of his break on his own clinging to his cup of liquid comfort in the corner and watching the others converse and he’s actually doing quite alright until Germany notices him hiding behind the coffee machine.

“Erm, right, England.” The large nation begins rather awkwardly after having taken a few nervous sips from his freshly poured cup of coffee. “I just wanted you to know that if I have ever made you feel like I forced you or another nation to do something regarding EU policies, it was never my intention to make anyone feel uncomfortable, or left out. And I sincerely apologise if any of my past or present actions have contributed in any way to your decision to part with the Union."

England has to refrain from rolling his eyes or worse, _snorting_. Even after England has insulted him, Germany’s here with his guilt-complex bigger than the Eiffel Tower, bloody _apologising_. The man’s a masochist if he’s ever seen one.

“Oh _no_ , that’s quite alright lad.” He says with a little dismissive wave of his hand, failing to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “I just think everyone’s handling my departure a little roughly, but they’ll come ‘round, eventually.”

Germany actually looks relieved, the idiot. He’s just like a little dog, wagging his tail and licking boots until everyone likes him, then he’ll bite their heads off. England won’t stick around to see that happen.

“If, if there’s anything I can do to improve our current situation, anything to make you reconsider..” Germany begins but trails off quickly and ends up looking at England like a lost child.

 _Yes you can, by jumping off of a bridge. By keeping your filthy paws off of what is mine,_ England wants to answer, but for once he bites his poison tongue and instead gives the man a cold little nod. “You’re already doing the best you can, Germany.” _The best to ruin my fucking life._

“Thank you.” Germany says, and he gives England an uncertain smile. He has never been good at catching subtle toxic nuances to England’s remarks. “I’ll see you in the meeting room then, the coffee’s getting cold.”

It only then occurs to England that Germany is holding another cup, the coffee in it rich and dark and just how France likes it and _fuck_.

“Actually, I’ll be leaving now.” England says in a horrid polite chipper and he’s turned around before Germany can respond.

When his plane drifts above the Channel three hours later England looks down, pretends he can see Dover down below, the white cliffs that had welcomed him after he’d fled from Dunkirk 70 years ago. Even then, France had refused to take his hand, preferring to rot away on his own soil. England studies the yellow lights in the darkened landscape and wonders why separating is the only thing he and France seem to be good at.

And that night England dreams of endless trails of Gaul’s footsteps in wet sand and how his tunic clung to his slender legs as he waded through the dark waters. He remembers how Gaul shrieked with glee and ran from the waves that kept thundering onto England’s shores, dripping strands of hair clinging to his face. How Dover’s cliffs rose high and tall above them into the grey sky. And how the sea reduced their footprints to little dimples to be forgotten in the sand.


End file.
